At the Risk of Sounding Cynical
by Badhbh Catha
Summary: Peter's POV, at age 17, 3rd person limited


Disclaimer: It isn't mine  
  
A/N: Very unfinished, very messy. This is awkward, and fumbling, and I will rewrite it all as soon as I have the chance. It was written in at least two very different styles that failed utterly to meld together in any way. Add to that the fact that this is not even a finished thought, let alone a finished chapter (assuming this will even be multi- chaptered…probably not now that I think of it), and I am altogether very disappointed. I wrote this first as 1st person, but I changed it to 3rd. I'm still not sure whether it was an improvement or not. I may very well change it back.  
  
  
  
The colours swirled around him, his vision blurring as if it was afraid of what he might see otherwise, and blurred as a favor to him, doing its part to keep his sanity. Everything was loud, so loud. The noise drowned out his thoughts. Behind the rest of the sound, he could almost make out a melody. It was peaceful and serene, a lullaby, maybe. It mocked him. The air weighted down upon him, persistent, unceasing, like the current of sound that threatened to overwhelm his small consciousness. His strength was eroding. He felt lost in the vast expanse of chaos and unrest that was everywhere around him. He could not keep his feet in the torrent of stressed discontent.  
  
Above all else was the laughter, filling his ears and his mind, overruling any rationality he might otherwise yet claim. It was the laughter of everyone he knew, the laughter of everyone who mattered. He could hear his mother's loud contralto chuckle and his father's softer chortling. He heard his professors, also, and the other students. He heard his enemies' jeering snickers, and his friends' roaring laughter. Their laughs were cold, unfeeling things, devoid of affection or the simple happiness that is the true intention of a laugh. This cruelty profaned the sound, and filled him with an anticipatory desperation.  
  
One sound split apart from all the others, louder and more terrible. It was James' laugh, and it echoed throughout his mind, reverberating off his every insecurity, filling him with a cold fear and a sharp, lonely despondency. In seconds, the laugh retreated, and it pulled Peter with it, back into conscious reality.  
  
He could hear the sounds of his three friends speaking on the other side off the room. As he opened his eyes, the last remnants of his dream vanished. Still shaking, he rolled over on his side, blinking repeatedly in an attempt to wash the memory of his dream away as well. After a time, he decided that he had regained his control, and sat up.  
  
"Good morning." James' greeting still had the tone of recent laughter, and Peter winced involuntarily, covering the motion by standing up. He smiled calmly at his friends, and walked over to where they sat.  
  
"Any ideas for tonight?" Peter asked, knowing of only one thing that could get James out of bed so early.  
  
"Maybe…" the flash his friend's eyes confirmed Peter's suspicion. "But…later. Let's go down to breakfast."  
  
The day passed slowly, and Peter caught himself almost drifting off twice. He barely was listening as James explained his theories on a potential castle secret after dinner. By the time the rest of the Gryffindor house had gone to sleep, though, he had almost managed to forget his dream, if only in favor of other more imminent concerns.  
  
"Don't you think maybe this isn't the best of ideas? Now, of all times?"  
  
"Of course this isn't the best of ideas. Nothing could top last month"  
  
"Honestly guys, this is stupid." Peter tried again.  
  
"Maybe Wormtail is right. We could think of some other plan for a different night." Was Remus mocking him? He couldn't tell.  
  
James and Sirius shared a look of exasperation. Peter winced.  
  
Remus shrugged and grinned at him apologetically. "Sorry. I tried."  
  
"No, they're right. This'll be fun." Peter offered, searching his friends for a reaction. Nothing. "I doubt if even the Professors know what's in there," he tried. Seven years, and finally he was getting better at this. They smirked and the four of them slipped out of their dorm and started down for the Gryffindor common room.  
  
"I'm surprised we hadn't found it yet," hissed James in an undertone, continuing Peter's carefully posed comment. His lips twitched with the beginnings of a nervous smile of triumph.  
  
"It was added on to the school after the map we used, so it wouldn't have shown up." Remus had been delighted when Peter brought up the prospect of the renovations after the incident in 1896, which was long after the map that theirs had been styled after was created, but before the time of the modern map of the school with which they had compared the much older map.  
  
Creeping toward the west wing of the castle under James' invisibility cloak (which provided the largest danger to the outing, as it was no longer large enough to completely cover the four boys under normal conditions), they stopped every so often to check the map, making sure there was no one around. On the fourth such break, they saw a small dot appear a good deal ahead of them, moving towards the same hall they had been making their way towards. It was Severus Snape.  
  
"What's he doing out after hours?" Sirius wanted to know. Peter started to counter by asking what they were doing out after hours themselves, but remembering Sirius' expression earlier, he decided he had said enough for one evening.  
  
"Let's follow him," Peter suggested instead, hoping to make up for his protestations earlier.  
  
"Of course we follow him. This is Opportunity." Peter could hear the capital 'o' in Sirius' awed response. It was true. This sort of thing didn't happen every night.  
  
Cautiously, they started down the corridor, watching the map all the while. Snape was moving very slowly, hardly making three meters at a time before pausing for as long as he had moved. Not having the resources the other four did, he had to check for professors carefully. Peter felt very grateful for the cloak and the map.  
  
Turning a corner, they could see the greasy seventeen-year-old ahead of them. They slowed their pace to match his own deliberate step. After some time, he stopped before the painting that was the marauder's destination as well. Easily twice Snape's height, the painting depicted a small girl in a very elaborate dress. Her hair as pale as her face, she was smiling at the various other children around her, almost as outlandishly garbed as she was herself. 


End file.
